


and i press you to the pages of my heart

by makapedia



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: Drunken Flirting, F/M, Scheming, fakir is the world's most exhausted babysitter part 343875843, no smut (because ahiru is very drunk)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-29 12:09:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19019632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makapedia/pseuds/makapedia
Summary: There might be nothing funnier in the world than a drunken Ahiru.





	and i press you to the pages of my heart

**Author's Note:**

> [I WANNA DO BAD THINGS TO YOUUUUU](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ELzgEvk31dk)

There might be nothing funnier in the world than a drunken Ahiru.

Part of him feels bad about letting her get this intoxicated — he knows it's his job to look out for her, because god knows she won't look out for  _herself_  — but he reminds himself that she is an adult now, and to take that choice away from her wouldn't go over well anyway. For as sweet as she is, she's equally as stubborn, and Fakir thinks if he tried to play dad friend and keep her from that third pina colada she might've drank a forth just to spite him.

But she's funny, at least, and seems to be in a good mood. Ahiru is all smiles as she waddles through the dance floor like a duck. He has to bite his lip to keep from laughing outright; she's a dance student, for goodness sake, but there's not a graceful bone in her body, and drunk Ahiru is twice as bold as her sober counterpart.

So Fakir repents and plays watchdog instead. He looms, leaning against the doorframe of Rue's living room, and keeps a watchful eye on the spinning princess as she toddles to and fro, caught somewhere in between mingling and trying to keep up her weird little jig. She bounces from foot to foot, and at the very least, she seems to be able to find a beat in the song, so Fakir knows she pays a little bit of attention in her classes, but—

"She'll be fine."

Fakir takes a sip of his water and says nothing, ignoring the way his blood jumps, It shouldn't. He hadn't been caught red handed, and it wasn't even like he was doing anything wrong — and besides, Ahiru is a notorious clutz. Someone ought to look out for her.

"Fakir," Rue says, more forcefully this time. "Ahiru will be fine. She's a grown woman."

"She's wearing heels."

"And they make her legs look great."

Fakir nearly chokes on his water. It's like he can feel Rue's simpering through her tone, which is infuriating, because it's definitely not what this had been about at all. This watchfulness, this possessive pull he feels in his gut as she turns to smile at Mytho and place a stabilizing hand on his shoulder — it comes from a place of concern for her safety, of course. It's the only place it  _could_ come from, and Fakir leaves it at that without giving it much more thought.

So he tries to play it off smooth. Clears his throat. "Ahiru has chicken legs. They will snap."

Rue shakes her head and pushes past him. "You are the most emotionally constipated person I know. It must be exhausting to have your head shoved so far up your ass."

Pleasant as always. Fakir sets his glass down on the table beside him and folds his arms across his chest instead.

Allowing her to get under his skin would award Rue the victory, and if there's one thing he knows more resolutely than Ahiru's notorious clumsiness, it's that Rue Kuroha never deserves that satisfaction.  _She's_  the one who's full of shit. He wonders where Rue was when Ahiru decided that to sneak that last mixed drink while Fakir was cleaning up Mytho's spilled drink. He wonders where Rue had been the last time Ahiru had broken into his wine fridge and decided it was time to talk about her Feelings. He also wonders where Rue had been when Ahiru broke her wrist while trying to give him a hug and accidentally smacked it against a table, because apparently she has the bones of a hummingbird, and the audacity to laugh through her tears about it.

She'll be the death of him. They'll both be the death of him, between Ahiru's complete lack of self awareness and Rue's know it all attitude. What does Rue even know, he thinks, as he watches Ahiru twirl, long braid whipping around her. Watches as it finally settles and drapes behind her, hanging longer than the hem of her skirt, not unlike a damn leash —

Fakir presses his back more firmly against the wall.

What does  _he_  know, anyway.

He simmers there for a moment, watching much more chastely as she wiggles her skinny hips and chatters away with Rue, who keeps looking over her shoulder at him. It's a ruse, he knows, to rile him up, but Fakir refuses to allow Rue the satisfaction. If she thinks she can parade Ahiru in front of him the way she had Mytho and still get the same reaction, she has another thing coming. He is stone, now, immovable, hardened stone, and Ahiru had never been his to take anyway.

Chicken legs. She has  _chicken legs_. Why anyone so clumsy would bother wearing heels is beyond him, no matter the aesthetic payoff. Her legs are long and slender and could snap so easily, Fakir broods. Long and slender and smooth, and so pale, beneath the dark navy of her skirt.

He blinks once, twice. Catches himself staring far too thoughtfully at the hem of her dress and shakes his head.

Wistful doesn't suit him.

So he watches, impassively, of course, as Rue spins her around, slides a hand to sit comfortably on her lower back. If it's a challenge, it's not one he will rise to; he is stone, he reminds himself, as Ahiru giggles and throws her arms around her best friend. He doesn't react as Rue raises her brow at him. Doesn't budge when Rue pulls her closer and holds her by the waist, swaying slightly in time to some cheesy 80's power ballad.

No, it's nothing physical that breaks him. It's not the way Rue holds her, without overwhelming guilt or concern for what intentions it might convey, and it's not the way Rue leads her through the slow dance that really gets to him. It's the smile she presses against Ahiru's cheek, and the way she whispers something in her ear that gets her to giggle, and Fakir feels something in his chest snap.

It takes only three long strides for him to cross the room and reach them. Ahiru's eyes are big and impossibly blue as she blinks up at him, vision probably swimming.

"Fakir," she says, far too brightly. Whatever had just broken in his chest heats to the temperature of lava and goes absolutely molten. "Are you here to dance too?"

Rue's smile is annoyingly smug. "It's rude to interrupt, you know."

"He can dance too!" Ahiru says, wiggling her way out of Rue's embrace. "'Sides, Mytho— Mytho's right there, we can all dance!"

Idiot.

"I can dance with Mytho," he finds himself saying, looking at her shoulder, her ear, anywhere. "You can keep dancing with Rue if you want."

Idiot she might be, she's still vexing, and shimmies her way far enough out of Rue's grasp to grab the front of his shirt, squint very intently at the center of his chest, and say, "But I want to dance with you."

Jesus. A direct shot to the heart. Ahiru teeters into his chest, giggling, and Fakir catches both Rue and Mytho grinning at him long enough to want to crawl into the dirt and die, right then and there. He's not sure what's worse, the knowing look on their faces, or the way Ahiru's arms lock around the small of his back when she leans her entire kitten weight against him.

So he glares at him. Or tries to, anyway. His resting bitch face doesn't have the same effect it used to, and instead of folding beneath the sheer weight of his glare, they instead high five like absolute twerps and exit stage left.

They'd tag-teamed him. Played him like a damn fiddle. When had Mytho wised up like that?

"You're not dancing," Ahiru whines, and then her hands are on his hips instead of his back, pushing, trying to lead. "I can dance good too, don't worry about Mytho—"

Ahiru hooking her fingers into his belt loops is weirdly the hottest thing to ever happen to him. Fakir puts a stop to it immediately, because on top of all of the complicated guilt and attraction and adoration he feels towards this impossible, maddening girl, she's also intoxicated, and that, above all, makes getting unusually turned on absolutely out of the question. Fakir grabs her wrists and tries not to dwell on the warmth of her skin. "I'm not worried about Mytho. I'm worried about  _you_."

"Don't be!" She does a little wiggle where she stands, and for a freak, fleeting second, he fears her knees will just snap. But instead she wrestles his hands into her own and stands there, swaying, fingers laced with his. "I'm a good dancer too. Maybe not as good as Mytho or Rue, but — but I can still dance with you! My professor says all I really need is a good partner to lead."

He will lead her directly to bed. A… and not in that way, he thinks hotly, the back of his neck burning. Directly to bed, with a glass of water and maybe a midnight snack. And not him. "You're drunk."

"I'm tipsy!" She is all smiles, for sure. "I'm having fun. Don't be a negative Nancy. Dance with me!"

"Negative Nancy," he says, snorting.

"Negative Fakir." Her hands tug and tug, but he is bigger and stronger, and she's unsteady on her feet anyway. " _Frowny_  Fakir."

Well, if the shoe fits.

He gives an experimental tug, and Ahiru nearly gallops toward him, crashing into his chest, giggling all the while. It's not like she hasn't always been physically affectionate; Fakir's caught her cuddling with kittens and puppies more times than he can count, but — it's never been directed at him, and certainly never this enthusiastically. He supposes they've held hands once or twice before out of necessity, but this is something else entirely. Fakir's not sure he's ever experienced such enthusiastic physical contact aimed at him in his life.

It can't go to his head. Fakir pops that emotional balloon before it has the chance to inflate any further. "Let's get you some water," he says, dropping one hand to turn and lead her back toward the couch.

"But I wanna daaaance!"

He's not sure how she manages to drag her feet in heels. He's not sure how she's manage to remain standing either. He does know, however, that she has the gall to reach out and goose him with her free hand, and Fakir jumps so far he nearly drags her to her death in the process.

Burning all of the way to his ears now, he turns and snaps, "What was that?"

 _Her_ cheeks are pink too. "You weren't listening to me!"

"So you—" He sputters for a moment. Christ. He can't even say it out loud. Fakir leans down to her level and says, accusingly, "So you grab my ass?!"

"Rue said it'd get your attention."

Of course she did. Fakir stands back up and pushes a hand through his hair. He allows a long breath out through his nose and tries to school his expression into something much more appropriate.

Ahiru visibly wilts. "Did I do something wrong? I thought — Rue said —"

"Hands to yourself," he snaps.

She flinches. Lip wobbles. Fuck.

"Wait, no, I didn't— I didn't mean it like that," Fakir says, backtracking rapidly. "I don't care if you touch me, I just—"

"I thought you'd like it?" She admits, and now she's curiously pink, too, though he can't decide if it's genuine bashfulness or all of the rum she's had tonight. "Rue said it'd get your attention because it'd make you feel good and I always want Fakir to feel good—"

Jesus  _Christ_. "Ahiru."

"— But you're so confusing and I didn't know how else to get you to dance with me so I just— I reached out and I did it!" She looks up then, and he could laugh at how resolute her expression is, if his blood wasn't pounding in his ears. "And it's cute anyway, it's weird that nobody else is grabbing it—"

Fakir presses his hand over her mouth. "Thank you. No more. Okay?"

She blinks up at him with those long lashes of hers. Big blue eyes. From beneath his palm, he can feel her purse her lips. Can even feel her lick her lips.

" _Okay_?"

Ahiru nods slowly. She exhales through her nose, and her breath is warm on his thumb.

Tentatively, he removes the makeshift gag. There's not enough time in the world for him to unpack all of that — he can't even allow himself to think on it without all of the blood in his body rushing to places it shouldn't — but his face still feels horrifyingly hot, and his nerves frazzled. He makes a mental note to give Rue a piece of his mind for putting Ahiru up to such a scheme in the first place and turns again. "You need water."

"But—"

"I'll dance with you if you drink a glass of water," he says, compromising. "And only then."

She mumbles something behind him but follows his lead. Fakir doesn't think about what she might be saying or where she might be looking. It's weird, feeling self conscious all of a sudden — because it's not like he's overly confident or anything, but it's more like he's never considered himself a particularly attractive person, and  _certainly_ has never given any thought to what others might think his ass looks like. And Ahiru, of all people. He wasn't sure she'd ever had a sexual thought in her life.

Not that she thought about him that way. Definitely not him that way. It's just… unusually physical of her. She, who used to daydream about a world where she married Mytho, purely because he was nice to baby birds and used to save snails from being crushed on the sidewalk. He'd just always thought attraction worked differently for her. Less about lust and more about emotional attachment.

Fakir turns around as soon as they're in the kitchen. Ahiru looks up. Tries to smile innocently at him, probably, but she's kind of a messy, silly drunk, and instead she smiles with her teeth and just looks cute.

She needs water. Fakir helps himself to Mytho's fridge. "Do you want any ice?"

"Noooo." She presses her lips together. "I don't want any water at all."

He watches the water fill the glass and not her murky expression. "Do you want to dance with me or not?"

She huffs. Rubs her face. Mutters, "Frowny Fakir."

That's his name apparently. Don't wear it out. He slides the glass across the counter to her and then stares expectantly.

"Don't watch me drink!" She blurts, pink. "It's embarrassing."

"It's not."

"Can I have a straw?"

He can't tell if she's procrastinating or feeling too far gone to comfortably drink from a glass in front of him without wearing half of it. And yeah. Okay. Fakir doesn't think he should watch her drench herself right now anyway. Maybe the party's getting to him, too.

He grabs a straw and drops it in her glass. He watches long enough to make sure she takes it and takes a long sip before busying himself with putting the gallon of water back in the fridge.

"Why weren't you dancing before?"

He shuts the fridge door. Ahiru's at his elbow, now. Closer than where he'd left her. "... I'm not much of a dancer."

"Liar!" She poins an accusatory finger at him. "You're a way better dancer than I am! Liar."

"Then I'm not much of a partier," he says instead.

It seems to placate her. Ahiru takes another long sip of her drink and Fakir watches, almost transfixed, as her lips press around the straw.

Damn.

"... You seem to be, though," he says, almost mindlessly. He's helpless, as she slips the straw from her mouth. Helpless, as he watches it press to the seam of her lips as she stops and considers, through the drunken haze of her brain.

"Maybe." Ahiru licks her lips. Then she looks at him, and there's a fogginess there, in the ocean of her eyes. "Rue says rum is like liquid courage, and I wanted to be braver, so— so now I'm a partier!"

Ah. So that's where Rue had been. Meddlesome woman. Fakir wonders who she'd been trying to help by helping Ahiru forget her inhibitions — because it couldn't have been her so-called best friend. And he really doubts Rue would ever do anything with his happiness in mind.

"I don't see what you would've needed to be braver for," he says, sensibly. He tries very hard not to stare at her mouth as she finishes her glass of water, because he's not a creep, dammit, but she has a way about her, and he's been particularly helpless lately when it comes to Ahiru's clueless love spell.

"'Course not. You're super brave!"

"I'm not," he says, deadpan.

"Super brave! And, like, tall. And stuff." She waves her hands at him, his shoulders, his face. Fakir raises a brow. "I wish I could be like you!"

"Tall?"

"Brave! And mysterious and sexy and stuff," Ahiru says pitifully.

He is perhaps the farthest thing from both mysterious and sexy. Still. The effect of Ahiru calling him such things isn't lost, and Fakir's ears begin to burn again.

It's not as blatant on him as it is on her, though. She's so fair skinned, it's like every mark and rush of blood paints her like watercolor. Even with the encouragement of her so-called liquid courage, Ahiru's freckles are still smudged with pink, overwhelmingly so. He tells himself it is also partially the rum, both doing the talking and inspiring such dramatic color on her, but it doesn't do quite enough to quell the heat creeping up on his own face.

"... Cuz you're sexy. And stuff."

"Am… I?"

Ahiru nods miserably. Tries to hide behind her straw. "... More drink?"

"Water?"

She shakes her head this time. "Think I need more rum…"

"Sorry. Bartender's cut you off." Fakir takes the glass from her and tries to calm the rush of his blood. She's drunk, he tells himself, she's very drunk, and he should really only take half of what she says with a grain of salt.

She pouts and presses her hands to her face. "You're no fuuuuun…"

But he's sexy, apparently. Fakir sets his hand on her head in what he hopes is a placating, calming show of endearment. Her hair is soft, and fluffy, even while tied back in her mile-long braid, and really, all he wants to do is pull her forward and kiss her there, right on her pink, freckled forehead.

He doesn't. Fakir is not as brave as she thinks he is. "Did Rue put you up to this?" He asks, almost uncharacteristically gently.

Ahiru shakes her head.

"You said she told you drinking would help."

"Yeah," she says, looking up at him almost dreamily. "I feel like I can do anything. It does help."

Well. He's certainly never seen her flirt so blatantly before. And never so articulately, even if this is… questionable at best. Usually, Ahiru trips over herself, blushes and stutters and stumbles over her words — all the while trying to impress Mytho. Or she had, at least, until her best friend had started dating him.

"You know it doesn't have to be me, right," he says then, hand still atop her head. "You could go dance with anyone here and they'd be happy to do it."

She chews her lip. Even goes as far as to reach forward and take the front of his shirt in her hands again. "But I wanted… wanted to dance with you. If you wanted to dance with me? Rue said you wanted to dance with me, but you were too constipated or something to come do it, so I should—" she hiccups. "— Should! Try to seduce you. But I'm really no good at being sexy."

Meddlesome woman. Fakir sighs. "Mytho is a great dancer. He could help you."

Ahiru squints into his chest and clenches the fabric of his turtleneck between her fingers. "Don't wanna dance with Mytho the way I wanna dance with you."

"I don't think—"

"He's Rue's," she blurts, tugging him toward her again. "He's Rue's! And, um, I know I used to like him, but I don't anymore, um, and I also know  _you_ used to like him, but—"

Fakir summons the courage of a stronger man and cups her face in his hands. "We're not going to be each other's rebounds, Ahiru."

"Noooo! No!" She tries shaking him but really only shakes herself. Bites her lip and says, "I don't  _want_ to be your rebound. That's not— ugh, my brain is like soup right now—"

Fakir lets out a breath and shakes his head. "That's the rum."

"I just! I wanna… if  _you_ wanna…"

Her face is so warm in his hands. A lesser man would pull her face to his and swallow the words she can't seem to place. Or perhaps a greater man — a braver man — but he is Fakir, and there's a sense of duty here, inevitably tied to her and her heart. Not like this, never like this. If it's going to happen, it'll be because she wants it, and because she wants it without poison running through her veins.

"I think you should sit down."

"I want to sit on your lap!" Ahiru blurts.

That is… not at all what he was going for. Nor what he thought she was going to go for. "What."

That so-called liquid courage is something else. Ahiru closes her eyes and leans into his touch still dreamily, almost serenely. "... Wanna sit on your lap," she admits, smiling, like an absolute twerp. Like she doesn't know at all what she's asking for. "I like being close to you."

"Who said I was going to sit?"

"I want you to." She peeks, cracking her eyes open just a slit, watching him through her dark, painted lashes. "Or not. Or we could just stand here…"

Realistically, he probably could just stand here with her until she fell asleep like this, leaning into his touch like a cat. Ahiru couldn't weigh more than 90 pounds. If he waits it out, Fakir could undoubtedly lull her to sleep and then tuck her into Mytho's spare bed before the night was over, easily.

But that meant standing here with her. And Ahiru's making even less sense than usual.

"... Are you having fun?"

"I wanted to dance," she says, pouting, again. She tries pulling him closer, but all she accomplishes is falling into him again. When he places a soothing hand on the back of her head she sighs, as if it'd been something she wanted to happen. "... We could dance like this."

They can barely hear the music from in here. There's no mood lighting. Ahiru's hands are sandwiched between his chest and her cheek.

"... Hm."

"You should touch me more," she says, and something in the back of Fakir's brain screams  _danger, danger!_ "I won't bite. I like being touched— like being touched by you, um."

And then she giggles. He doesn't know what she has to giggle about. It sounds nervous, but then she peeks up at him, tipping her head back, and Fakir doesn't think he's ever seen that look in her eyes before. There's a want there, swimming in the depths of her stare, but it's not one he's familiar with. She's always been good at putting on a front, at wearing a mask, if it meant making Rue or Mytho happy — but even when she'd been outward with her desires, when she'd  _wanted_ Mytho, and worn that want nakedly on her face, it hadn't looked like this.

He doesn't know what this  _means_. Just knows it makes his fingers itch, makes his blood burn a little more brightly.

Fakir doesn't really have the time to sit and think on it. Ahiru decides it is time to dance, and, well — she'd drank her glass of water, so he doesn't really have any right to deny her anymore.

It starts innocently enough. Ahiru smooshes her face against his chest and wraps her arms around him. Fakir, unsure of where he should, um, touch her, settles for her shoulders, and leads her, albeit cautiously, in a slow sway around Mytho's kitchen. And for a moment it's fine, and it's almost sweet, and it's so much so that he allows himself to let his guard down, just for a second, to enjoy it.

Ahiru takes the chance to try and grind her hips into his. It doesn't really work — his height is his saving grace — and instead she sort of… grinds her hips into his thighs, because even in her heels she's still a head shorter than him, but it does finally clue him in to what's actually happening here.

She's horny. Ahiru is  _horny_. The pieces of the puzzle finally fall into place. She wants to sit on his lap because she wants to… oh.

Well. There's no way for him to hide his blushing face now. He stammers for a moment, hips jerking back, yelping, "Ahiru—"

"Nooo, wait, um—"

She is glued to him. God. Rue had suggested she drink enough to forget how nervous she was about flirting with him, apparently, and it'd worked a little too well. She's been trying to get into his pants this whole time.

Ahiru is  _horny_.

Fakir puts an arms-length distance between them. Presses his hands to the counter behind him and sucks in a breath. Her pupils are so dilated now that he can barely see the blue of her eyes, and — Christ, that'd been lust that she'd been looking at him with.

And he can't even enjoy it. Not like this. It's not that he wouldn't like to be ravaged within an inch of his life by her, because god knows he would — she could sit on his lap any day, really, as long as she hadn't had three drinks beforehand. But she has. And because she has, he can't be sure if this is something that she actually wants, or if she's even aware of what she's doing — and that takes the fun out of it.

Okay. Sure. It's a little flattering. But it's not really what he wants. And something tells him it's not what she wants, either.

"Did Rue put you up to this?"

Ahiru looks almost like a hunter stalking her prey. It's weird, coming from someone usually so darling and cute. It would be hot, if he knew she could tell up from down right now. "I just wanna dance with you…"

"Did Rue put you—"

"No! Mytho said—"

"Did  _Mytho—_ "

She stumbles forward and puts her hands on either side of his hips. Tries to stand up on her toes, too, but she's in heels, so it doesn't really do her any favors. "He said you were lonely, and that you thought— I just want…" she trails off.

 _Soup brain,_ he thinks, as she'd put it.

She links her fingers in his belt loops, and he wish he could allow himself to enjoy it. Instead, he tries shimmying away from her without throwing off her balance. "... Don't you want me too?"

"You don't know the half of it," he says miserably.

"Mytho said you wanted me too." And now she looks like a kicked puppy. A kicked puppy who was denied his dick. Ugh. What is happening to him tonight. "So I— this dress, and the shoes—"

He literally cannot allow himself to follow that train of thought because he will never sleep soundly again. He can't look at her dress or her shoes, or their mile-long legs — and what right does she even have, having legs like hers, when she's so stupidly short anyway. It doesn't make any sense. It drives him up the wall.

Fakir pushes a hand through his hair and sighs, very heatedly. "They're fine."

"I don't just want to be cute! I want— I  _want_ ," she says with meaning. He doesn't know what it means. Or maybe he does, and he can't think about it right now. She  _wants_.

"Did you put them up to that little show on the dance floor?"

"You never look at me!"

He could laugh. "I never stop looking at you, you idiot. What in the world were you thinking?"

"They said they'd help! They said— they said it'd work, and you'd be putty! You're not putty!"

It is a well known fact that Fakir is putty in Ahiru's hands seven days a week. The thought that she'd felt the need to drunkenly offer herself up to him both makes him want to laugh and also shake her.

And, well, kiss her. But later. Not tonight.

"I think we should continue this conversation tomorrow," he says, pausing only to flick her, right on her forehead. "And maybe when you're sober, if you're still feeling this way, we can talk."

"But what if I'm too scared," she mewls, wobbling on her feet.

Fakir makes the executive decision to hook his hands beneath her armpits and lift her up. She squeaks, but links her arms around his shoulders (and her legs around his waist, ugh) anyway, so at least he knows she won't fall over anytime soon. And the contact seems to comfort her. Seems to at least calm her and keep her from crying like a tortured, pathetic soul.

"If you come talk to me about this tomorrow, I'll let you do whatever you want after." Do not blush. Do not stutter. It is a compromise, he tells himself — if she gives him what he wants, she can take literally anything she wants from him. All he needs is proof.

Moving while she's koala-ing him is impossible. He sets her on the counter and hopes she'll sit there instead of trying to crush herself against him. "... Anything?"

Okay, so he's blushing. Whatever. "I promise."

"... A-and, um," she says, licking her lips. Ahiru gives him a very blatant once over that would have her sober self screeching in embarrassment over. "... What if I want you to do things."

Is this what it feels like to be wanted? He takes her ankles into his hands and unlinks them from behind his back, because she can't look at him like that and say things like that while she's got herself pinned to his waist. That's just dangerous. "... Yes?"

"And if you… wanted to do things," she says, then hiccups, then forgets what she was saying and just stares at him like he's a piece of meat instead of finishing her sentence.

Fakir storms (escapes) to the fridge and rips it open again. "What the fuck did Rue put in your drink?!"

" _Rum!_ "

Too much rum. Ah. Well. At least the cool air from the fridge will help him chill out a bit. Somebody has the be the adult here, and clearly, Rue and Mytho have tapped out for the night — and if it were up to Ahiru, she'd be giggling about something while being drunkenly plowed into his mattress, which is seven different kinds of illegal.

Never mind the fridge. Fakir sticks his head in the freezer and hopes he'll just wake up tomorrow and Ahiru won't be terribly hungover and mortified.

But he knows he shall never be so lucky.


End file.
